The Gift of Fallow Seasons

From up on our second floor, I gaze down upon the multiple gardens surrounding our home. Maize towers, dancing in the early morning breeze. Vibrant green dots our ministry lands, evidence that there has been so much growth since the initial planting. It’s incredible to think that those evenly placed seeds, carefully nestled in nutrient-rich soil, have become waving stalks, carrying the capacity for more. Rainy season is still here, showering the land with its precious drops—the earth soaking it up until the harvest is ready to be gathered.

While pumpkin-spiced lattes and cute fall sweaters flood my social media, I’ve finally given in and pulled out my savored pumpkin-spiced candle. Its fragrance wafts about the house and creates a cozy atmosphere, and I picture a world where leaves turn to warmer hues. Uganda only has two seasons, and our rainy one is about to transition into another very dry one.

It’s been a busy season of life for us as another full year of ministry draws to an end. Delighting in visitors coming, while preparing to say dreaded goodbyes as dear friends move away. There’s an intermingling of both gratitude and grief. There’s something beginning to settle as I carefully help pack dishes into black bins, offer to provide play dates, and walk with friends through this muddy season. Books on shelves are thinned out, bunk beds are taken down, and decorations are removed, leaving their imprint on the walls. The sweet memories linger still, as the final sweep is done and the house is locked up for good. A home’s transition back to only a house can feel overwhelmingly void of life.

There’s stillness in the aftermath.

And I can feel it resting heavy on me, like the thick dust as it settles in the dry season. I notice it quietly beckoning as I tend to my children and help them process their own goodbyes. It’s like when the harvest is gathered up and the garden is left to rest for a time. A fallow season could be explained as a transition period between death and new life. 

That uncertain space.

I’ve slowly learned over the years to lean into this kind of season. The kind where my heart feels weighted and my mind feels cluttered. Where I feel an inner need to pull back a little, and in the middle of the shifting sands, to allow myself to lie fallow for a while.

To embrace this season of being tended by the Lord,

To reset my heart and nourish what has been depleted,

To replenish the nutrients that have been poured out,

And to release what has been inwardly stored.

Like ground cover, I know the Lord is using this time like a blanket to hem me in closer to him.

This is a season of stillness, to be still and to know that he is God. It’s like I’ve entered into a process of decomposing—slowly breaking down the moments and emotions that seem to have gathered up in a massive pile. I need to be unhurried in this season, to reflect and sit in the muddiness of it all.

Matthew 11:28–30 encourages us, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (ESV).

When I make space for the Lord to minister to the weariness of my heart, I find the ability to reset so much easier than if I strive to push through. A prayer comes from deep within and is released by my scribbling pen, as I reflect on embracing this moment of being tended to:

Let me be like the soil—

where within, what is unseen grows.

He holds me in his gentle gardener hands

even when I don’t see it or feel it or know.

He calls me to lay down my burdens 

as he cultivates the hidden things in me.

And to find release and rest in him

while he does his deep work diligently.

In surrender, I discover a peace, 

when I release what I think I control.

It’s in the fallow, the lingering, and waiting,

and in the quieting of my soul.

He’s tending to me in the barren places,

a covering when there’s nothing to show.

When all appears empty, lost, or forgotten—

his provision is steady, in unknown spaces below.

Unworried in this season of bareness

or in the lack of outward or visual growth, 

he sows them intentionally one by one, 

his restorative seeds of hope.

The fallow seasons are a gift, and we are invited to take hold. 

We can be encouraged, though we may not see the flowers blooming or the towering maize still growing. As we sit in his peace and embrace the unfolding of our hearts, we can surrender our heavy load. We can enjoy his provision in the uncertainty, laying fallow for a while as we spend time resting in the stillness of the Lord.

Are you noticing a fallow season in your life? Do you feel the pull to embrace it, or are you still hesitant to sit patiently in it as the Lord tends to you?

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*First published with Velvet Ashes: https://velvetashes.com/the-gift-of-fallow-seasons/